Archives for June 2018

When I was a child I did not believe in bedtime monsters. I had no fear of the eyes in the closet or the claws under the bed. They were silly stories told to sillier children to shape their behavior. My feet would dangle from the edge, my head would go uncovered by blankets. I had no fear of things that did not exist.

I fear now.

I lie in my bed, my feet far from the ever-present darkness and head wrapped securely in a fabric shelter; the monster’s glowing eyes watch me from the closet, its claws inching outward from under the bed.

When this creature appeared, I cannot be certain. Not in my childhood, nor in my adolescence, but sometime later. Of that I’m sure.

It watches me. Not every night, no. But most. I am free two nights a week, maybe three or more on rare occasion. During bad times less, and during good times more. But the length of the hiatus does not matter, for it always returns, watching and waiting.

On those unfortunate nights, much like tonight, when I crawl into bed weary and wary, I see it stalking me, biding its time to grab me in my sleep. But I’ve learned to postpone the inevitable, to halt the undeniable. Light and noise keeps the monster away–at least for a time. So I turn on my television–it doesn’t matter to what–and beg my eyes to stay awake, to remain open a minute more. This may buy me a few hours of reprieve, but even so the monster edges ever closer, growing immune to my petty defenses as eyelids droop. Yet, I still have counters. Without warning I jump from my bed and turn on the lamp. The light fills the room, pushing the beast back to hiding. I do not make eye contact with it as I scurry to the bathroom, earning another precious moment of safety. But I can only hide there so long before my limbs grow heavy and my head dips to my chest.

Sleep is calling. The monster is beckoning.

With a desperate splash of water to the face, I give my mirrored reflection one last look as if the man looking back at me can offer assistance. We both know he holds no answer. He can only watch me vanish back into my room.

I sit on the bed and sigh. My head is swimming with fatigue. The end is near. I close my itching eyes, reach out a shaking hand, and turn off the protecting light. Darkness grabs hold and the monster crawls closer. Its damning steps are war drums in my ears. Yet my feet are still on the floor. It is a bold strategy, I know, but desperate times. Maybe, just maybe, if I do not let them touch my bed, I will confuse the creature, trick it into thinking I am not there.

It won’t work, it never does.

My shoulders stoop, and my muscles falter. The monster leaps. Its weight presses on my chest, its claws digging into my shoulders, pushing me downward. I am pinned, my feet dangling, my head uncovered, my mind fearful. This is it. I could struggle, I could fight. In the past I have, but now I have learned–there is no use in battling. The monster will win. It always does.

I look into its glowing eyes. No empathy, no remorse, no mercy. I do not whimper nor do I cry, even as my eyes close and the monster burrows inside of me.

Darkness takes hold.

My alarm screeches, and I wake. The monster is unseen, no longer lurking in my closet or hidden under my bed. No. It is inside of me–a burden I must endure on mornings such as these. My hands cover my face, and I could cry. But I don’t have time.

I must get to my stupid job.

Follow me on twitter @beginning_write for updates for new short stories such as this.

Additionally, if you love fantasy but are a bit annoyed by the tropes, stereotypes, and clichés, then take a break and read “The Horse’s Journey”. It is short story parody series that I have started to poke fun at all the wrongs found in standard fantasy novels. If you want to begin your journey alongside our heroic horse hero (alliteration!) click here.

Thank you for reading!

P.S. To any past/present/future employers, this is a total and complete work of fiction that in no way represents or symbolizes real life feelings of the author–well, maybe that ONE job, but not the others. . . okay maybe that LAST one, too, but definitely not the OTHER one. Maybe.

The man sat alone at the bar, staring down into an empty glass he did not remember ordering.

“I need your glass.”

The man jumped at the sound. He looked up to find a boy behind the counter, putting away a newly cleaned glass and exchanging a filthy rag for a fresh one.

The man shifted, bringing himself closer to his own glass. “I’m not done yet.”

The boy’s eyes did not leave the man’s face. “I need your glass.”

With a shaking hand, the man lifted his glass to his mouth, taking a deep swig of non-existing liquid. He stared at the child, daring him say something; the boy said nothing. A spark of heat awakened in the man’s stomach, and he eyed the child with disdain.

“What’s a kid like you doing in a place like this anyway?”

“I need your glass.”

The man slapped his hand against the counter. “I’m not ready to leave yet!”

“I need your glass.”

“If you want it, then have it!” The man grabbed his glass and reared his arm back. But he could not let go. He wanted to, he needed to, but he could not. The glass shook in his hands as he lowered it back to the counter.

“Give me another round,” he said, his heart racing.

“I need your glass.”

“Do you know who I am?” the man hollered, thrusting his trembling thumb into his chest. The boy did not so much as nod. The heat in the man roiled, ready to erupt. It would burn down the bar, the boy, and the glass, then they would know who he was!

But who was he?

The man inhaled sharply–he could not answer the question. There were flickers of bygone memories, but he could not form them into anything more.

“I need your glass,” the boy said, his face betraying no hint of care for the man’s realization.

“I’m not finished. Give me another moment to enjoy it.”

The boy did not react, and the man’s chest turned hollow. He felt nothing but the edge of an abyss. He needed another drink.

“A small refill is all I need, is all I ask.”

“I need your glass.” The boy held out a hand. In his other, the clean rag hung at the ready.

The man snarled and hissed, beating a hand against his head while the other clung to the dirty glass. “I’ll kill you if you don’t pour me something more!”

And he meant it. He would kill the boy for just one sip.

The boy’s face remained a blank mask. “I need your glass.”

The man leapt at the child. He would make the boy feel the hate coursing through his veins, the desperation filling his stomach, the fear in his every word. His hands missed the child but his arms did not. They wrapped around the boy and pressed tightly. But instead of harming the child, the man found himself clinging to him.

“Please, please, one more drink. If not a drink, one more sip from my glass. It isn’t empty, I promise it isn’t empty yet.” Tears poured down the man’s face and snot dribbled from his nose.

“I need your glass.”

The man removed himself from the child and looked down at his glass. This thing was important; no matter what he must never give it up.

But why?

He did not remember the contents of the glass, yet here he stood clutching it and begging to once again enjoy something he could not recall. What a silly thing to do. He took a deep breath, and in his veins he felt nothing and in his stomach sat nothing.

He wiped his face and held the glass out to the boy. “Take it.”

The child accepted it without gloat or derision, and the man turned and headed for the exit even as the boy ran the rag across the filth, leaving behind only a newly cleaned glass.

freedom is the duty to do what They want when They demand it. knowledge is the right They possess and only They can give. truth is the power They control and Others do not.

They set the rules, i follow them, They do not. that is life, not dystopia.

They proclaim Their public virtues, but practice Their private sins. They say this is not contradiction, so it is not. that is life, not dystopia.

They ask my opinion, rewarding my parroting, punishing–no, they correct, never punish–my divergence. this is right. They are right. i should repeat Their wisdom, earn Their approval never Their disapproval. that is life, not dystopia.

the world works because Them. the world burns because Others.

They educate me on lessons They do not follow. this makes sense, i must do the same. They question nothing but answer everything. this makes sense, i must do the same. They hate Others for being Them. this makes sense, i must do the same.

and when i have become They, They will tell you freedom, knowledge, and truth exists. They will tell you dystopia is a lie.

Here is the second entry into my weekly(ish) ongoing series The Horse’s Journey.

Chapter 2: (Yes, We Are Doing Chapters Now . . . And Also Considering Them Chapters!) Fadder, Vader, Father?

I stand over my farm boy, blocking him from the crazed hermit Old Man Fadder, who is staring at him. Alright creepy guy, you can leave now. Despite my clear body language, the old man comes over to the boy, ignoring me completely.